We thought your criticism of “The Kid” was extremely interesting. At last we got an idea what it really was like. It's a pity Charles lets these other things creep in—a great pity. I should very much like to see him with the infant. I feel that would be fine. But most of the rest—dear me, no! As to the tabloid of the lady with the cross—such things make one hang one's head.

We have been squirrel-gazing this afternoon through field-glasses. They are exquisite little creatures—so intent, preoccupied, as it were, and so careless. They flop softly from branch to branch, hang upside down, just for the sake of hanging. Some here are as small as rats, with reddish coats and silver bellies. The point about looking at birds and so on through glasses is one sees them in their own world, off their guard. One spies, in fact.

I'd like to send you some moss. Do you like moss? There are many kinds here, and just now it is in its beauty. It's nice to sit down and ruffle it with one's hand. Flowers are gone. A few remain, but they are flat on the grass without their stalks—dandelions and purple ones. The mountain ash is terrific against the blue. There aren't many leaves here to turn, but the wild strawberry makes up for them. Minute leaves of every colour are scattered on the ground.

In fact, if possible, this early autumn is all the bes'— even better than summer or spring. I mustn't send you a catalogue, though. I must refrain.